How to Tie a Bow
by c1araoswa1d
Summary: A tiny bit of regeneration energy passed onto Clara during Time of the Doctor and it did something impossible.


When she fell, her hand landed atop the strip of purple he'd left on the ground, discarded just moments before he became the man still yelling at her from the other side of the console, as if she'd fallen on purpose. He needed her to help him fly and when she stood, she pocketed the fabric and worked on the controls, trading angry jousts with the thick browed Doctor now pointing and asking questions, assimilating to his mind and when she finally stumbled back into her home a few days and an adventure later, Clara had looked in on her family, a family she felt she'd been away from for an eternity, and she cried.

"I hate Christmas," she'd bellowed, childishly, before locking herself in her room.

Her Gran had been the one to tell her father and aunt they should leave. "_Her boyfriend's just left her – on Christmas of all days – do you think she needs us here going on about that list of boy band characters of yours, Linda. Honestly, dear!_"

And she'd celebrated her night sobbing into an old bow tie while convincing herself that the new man would need her; the new man was still her Doctor – he'd told her so himself on a phone call rerouted through time.

She dreamed of him that night. Clara had dreamt they were back on the Tardis, but instead of him regenerating… instead of her standing just a foot away, arm outstretched, hand glowing as he struggled to reach out for her… she'd closed the distance. Clara had been braver than she had been in reality, she'd ignored the possible consequences they both had been thinking about in the actuality of the situation, and she'd tugged him down by his open collar and she'd kissed him. She'd kissed him and she'd loved him and he'd survived.

His regeneration energy had flowed through her, had warmed her entirely and curled around them like a blanket that carried them to his bedroom. It had soothed her, taken away her broken heart and wiped away her tears and illuminated the smile on his face as they lay in each other's arms after they'd both been spent. And then it had hung around them like a fog as his body framed hers and his thumb rubbed absently over her hip as she drifted in a place between asleep and awake.

His lips were on her neck, offering a small kiss before he whispered, "It's just a dream, Clara, and it's time for you to wake up."

"No," she told him sadly, turning to look up into his eyes, seeing the odd hope in them – hope she'd seen in them more often since Gallifrey. Clara smiled and she murmured, "No, I don't want you to go."

"I'm not gone, Clara," he laughed, hand rounding her stomach, "I'll always be with you."

She woke with a dry throat, body on fire and she'd fallen out of bed, curling up on the floor to cry against the aches she was feeling. The sudden onset of nausea and dizziness, and a stitch in her stomach she worried might need medical attention, but she lost consciousness and by morning it was all gone. By morning she simply felt groggy and hungry and Clara slowly picked up all of her holiday décor and tossed it in the bin because she was certain she would never celebrate Christmas again.

"I'm sorry that I can't be him." The words are spoken while she's in a daze, staring at the time rotor as it worked up and down, letting out groans as they moved through the Vortex and Clara looked up at the man who came around the console to stand a few feet from her – they way they'd stood when she first saw this face.

They'd continued to travel together and in the months that had passed, she'd come to accept that he was the Doctor; he simply had a different face. A different way of handling situations; a different way of handling her. He was afraid to touch her, or at least that's how she felt. Her Doctor had held her so often, she sometimes looked to this man's fingers, hoping he'd cup her neck or her cheek, or pop the top of her head, or poke at her shoulder.

Because _he_ always found a way to. Even when it seemed unnecessary, her Doctor was always finding some little moment to embrace her, or twirl her, or drop his arm over her shoulder. This man, she thought, this man pushed his hands into his pockets and hovered over her, but never – it seemed – near her. As if there were some invisible barrier between them she couldn't understand, nor did she want.

Clara wanted him to hold her sometimes. She wanted to feel like she was more than just his assistant, or his travelling companion, or whatever else he chose to call her. She wanted to feel close to him like she had before and when she looked up at him, she smiled at the worried look on his face as she shook her head and said, "It's alright, you're still the Doctor."

A week later he had dropped her off and, without a word, he hadn't returned. She spent weeks waiting for him, often more distracted by her daydreams than the students in her classroom and she grew resentful of him. First he changed his face, and then he threw her away like a used tissue after she'd spent lifetimes upon lifetimes saving him. But she found she couldn't be angry because she understood why; understood without asking. He was doing what he'd done before – protecting her by leaving her behind.

Because Clara was, _inexplicably_, pregnant.

"_What do you mean it was the bloke who left at Christmas_?"

Clara knew explaining it to her father would be difficult; explaining it to herself was still an ongoing battle, because she knew she hadn't slept with anyone, not since she'd met the Doctor, and yet she could slide her hand over the bump forming at her midsection. The one the Doctor had been keeping tabs on from the moment she'd re-entered the Tardis after Christmas; the one he'd come to accept as actually existing; the one that, Clara knew, kept him from picking her back up because he knew she couldn't travel with him with a baby – it was far too dangerous for them all.

It was a reality she accepted as she began to see her skin stretching outwards. Clara focused on her life, on her job and her home and on getting it all ready for a baby she hadn't been expecting. She could feel the first flutters of movement in her gut just as spring hit with a deluge of showers that easily set her in a trance as she waited for students to bring their tests up to the front of the class.

"Ms. Oswald," a young girl asked, "Are you alright?"

She was crying, fingers tentatively touching her belly, and when she glanced up into that worried face, she smiled – the first genuine smile she could remember in months – and she'd told her simply, "Sorry, I just felt him moving. First time," she'd added on a laugh.

Clara found herself dreaming of him more regularly. He told her stories of Christmas as they sat somewhere within the Tardis, as though he'd survived and they were together. Each night he came to her, it began the same, she lifted the bow tie off the Tardis floor and delicately wrapped it around his neck, securing it back where it rightfully belonged as he tested her growth, hands firmly at her stomach, a light laugh on his lips, and then he'd lead her somewhere.

Sometimes it was the pool, where they'd sit idly in the chairs next to it; sometimes it was the library where they'd sink into a couch together; sometimes it was a nursery he was constructing – pale blue walls painted with clouds that domed upwards into a night sky sparkling with stars. They were there the night that Clara asked when he was coming back. She usually didn't talk; didn't want to interrupt him. Didn't want to stop his voice from speaking eloquently into her ear, filling her mind with dreams within dreams of snowy landscapes and laughing children who enjoyed his puppet shows and drew him pictures of his stories.

_Oh, did he love to tell stories_.

"_Time is time, Clara; I can't turn it back_."

"_Don't turn it back_," Clara told him sadly, hand covering his on her stomach. "_Turn it around_."

He laughed then, softly, into her neck as the baby kicked his palm. "_I wish I could_."

She woke with a start, a pang of lightning in her lower back that had her hands trembling as she dialed her father's phone number while pushing the sheets back to see her water had broken. "Dad," was all she was able to say, her voice lost to fear because the sheets seemed blood soaked and another contraction was already taking hold. Far too quickly, she understood, dropping the phone and pulling herself to sit up, hands clutching at sheets and pillows as she tried to breathe.

"No," she whispered, "No, baby, not…" but she couldn't finish the sentence; couldn't tell their son to slow his arrival and so much sooner than she ever imagined, she was holding him in her bed, her head swimming cold and hot at the same time and she was on the verge of fainting when she heard the front door burst open, a paramedic shouting her name.

He loved to laugh.

The baby boy she lifted into her arms squealed as she began a twirl, but unlike most babies who tended to hold their hands together and look inward at the person spinning them, their son lifted his arms and looked upward with a tight lipped grin and narrowed eyes –as if he could see the space beyond the sky. Clara brought him back down to nuzzle her nose against his as he tried to kiss her, mouth open and wetting her top lip before she dropped him against her chest to hold.

She could feel his fists fumbling at her blouse, fingertips sneaking their way between the buttons to grip at the fabric and Clara kissed the top of his head while he mumbled against her. He spoke softly and then excitedly, shifting back to meet her eyes with _his_ and he laughed up at her and she understood he'd found some adventure in the pattern of her top; some amusement in the swirls of her black cardigan. She glanced up when her father arrived as she settled herself into the picnic blanket and his finger tapped at the purple bow tie hanging from the pram, just close enough for the baby inside to reach for, but not tug at.

"Odd thing to give a baby," he teased, kneeling and opening the wrapped sandwich he'd gotten for her before glancing up at the look she was giving the old fabric. "It was his, wasn't it." He tilted his head slightly, "Never really saw him with his clothes on."

Clara offered a laugh and she glanced down at the boy she held, poking his nose as he giggled, and then she smiled and told her father, "Yeah, it was his."

He stopped to glance up at her and pass the baby a sad look, one she knew well – he'd lost his father before he'd even known him. At least Clara had known her mother long enough to remember her face. Looking to her father, she offered a sad smile and, ignoring the cold snap in her chest, she reached for her sandwich and took a large bite, watching their son clap his hands and talk to himself before the boy shifted against her, eyes closing easily for a nap.

That night, the Tardis sounded as she was rocking him in the living room, watching his eyes moving slowly underneath their lids as his mouth sat half open between chubby cheeks that shifted to show off dimples. Clara wasn't sure if they were hers or his, but she ran a finger along the soft skin, gaining herself a grin as she looked up at the blue box that sat in her living room. She closed her eyes, taking a long breath because when the older man emerged, she had to explain something that was unexplainable.

And she had to forgive him for leaving.

"Clara?"

Her eyes snapped open and she inhaled sharply when she saw him standing there, delicate expression on his face as he gazed at the infant in her arms. She shook her head, looking him over, as though the man standing just a few feet away couldn't possibly be there, and yet he was. Older, hair greyed further than the first time she'd returned to Christmas, skin just a bit more wrinkled, and when he stepped towards her, Clara released a hiccup of a laugh as he gazed over the child she held.

"He's beautiful," he allowed then, gesturing to him and Clara offered the boy, watching the Doctor take him and smile proudly, standing still as the baby sighed and shifted into him, hand finding its familiar spot between the buttons of his waistcoat.

"How are you here?" Clara managed, holding her hands tightly at her chest.

The Doctor grinned up at her, "You weren't supposed to see me," he laughed. "I sent you back to live your life, but I had to check on you…" he looked down at the baby, "What a life you lived."

Clara held her breath, watching the Doctor beginning to bounce lightly as the baby stirred, and then she uttered softly, "He's yours." She watched his eyes come up, but there wasn't a surprise there – there was a sadness – and Clara felt her chest constrict because she knew what he was thinking.

To the Doctor, he was in a future inevitably rewritten by his decision to stay at Christmas. He looked down at the baby boy now staring up at him, same green eyes peering up into his curiously and then came the laugh and the reaching hand. The hand that wanted desperately to grasp at the bow tie around his neck, the familiar slip of fabric he'd held hundreds of time since his birth. The fabric he'd flapped about and chewed on and draped over his head as Clara kept a watchful eye.

"Doctor?" She questioned just as he gasped a sob.

"He can't be," he breathed, looking up at her, "We…" He looked skyward, "This is a future, Clara, a future that simply cannot be."

Shaking her head, Clara came closer as the boy complained, unable to reach for what he wanted, and she lifted a hand, slowly cupping the Doctor's jaw within her palm with an exhale of relief at the feel of his skin against hers and she nodded, telling him quietly, "Time is time, Doctor; time that won't be turned back."

"It will be erased," The Doctor told her sadly, adjusting the boy in his arms so that he grasped onto that bow tie and tugged at it happily as he smiled for his father. "He'll be erased."

Clara laughed then, softly, shaking her head as she finally understood, "You wished for him."

The Doctor smiled then, shifting the infant into one arm so he could push his fingers through her hair and she knew he still believed it would be wiped away because he swiftly kissed her, lips eagerly searching hers and Clara closed her eyes and drifted into him, listening to their son babbling between them a moment before the Doctor broke the kiss and gave a ragged laugh.

"He's alarmed I'll eat his mummy," he told her, voice wavering.

"Doctor, he's your son," she asserted painfully, "And you don't have…" she swallowed the word, but he nodded.

"I don't have much time," he finished for her and she wanted to punch him because he thought she meant that this reality would fade away, scratched from history – or rather, from future. Clara let her head settle on the Doctor's arm, her hand coming up to rub gentle circles against his back as he looked to the boy smirking at Clara.

He slipped away from her, and she watched his hand come up to cradle the head covered in wisps of brown hair that, she knew, would easily drop into his eyes one day as he rushed around her apartment, or sat doing homework at the dinner table, or shyly hung his head as he introduced his girlfriend. The Doctor walked towards the couch and he dropped heavily into it as the baby laughed and she listened as the Doctor began to speak.

"I don't have much time," he repeated, one hand protectively on the boy's back, the other drifting up over his own eyes, rubbing at them to try and clear the exhaustion she knew he felt from saving Christmas over and over again. "Isn't that always the dilemma – put into this universe with an ever dwindling limit of time in which to achieve so much," he touched a finger to the baby's chin and smiled when the boy did. Then he glanced up at Clara, "What have you named him?"

She crossed her arms and moved closer, settling herself on the couch next to him to rest herself against him as she breathed, "Evan Oswald," and she chuckled when he looked in her direction at the sound of his name.

"Evan," the Doctor tested and she sighed because it sounded exactly as she imagined it would, coming from him. Filled with so much more than just two syllables and a few letters, but with his hearts full to the brim with love for what the name represented – the same way he said her name. "Evan," he ducked his head to tell the boy as he turned to look at him, "Evan you brilliant star in my darkening sky – it is so very wonderful to meet you."

"Doctor, he's not going anywhere," Clara assured, fingers gripping into his arm before she kissed at it. "This is the future – this is what you create. Your last breath; your last hope," she admitted, knowing he was smart enough to deduce on his own.

He shook his head before looking to Evan to tell him, "The final victory of a dying man."

Clara felt her chin tremble, but she saw her son's eyes drift to her with concern and she nodded, holding in her sadness to smile for him. Watching his head tilt and then toggle back up to stare at his father. "All of your words and you have none for your son."

"Oh, Clara," he laughed, "I've given him a lifetime of stories already. Drifting in on the dreams of his mother in the dead of night. And as he lay with the dreams of his own creation. I've been giving him stories for as long as he can remember and, through you, I'll be giving him stories for the rest of his life."

She peered up at him and saw the smirk he was giving her – he hadn't come to visit her; he'd come to tell her another story as she slept. He'd been visiting her all the while thinking she'd been left alone to care for her child. The Doctor had been watching over her from Christmas – he'd never truly left. "All of this time?"

He nodded slowly and then shifted into the couch, watching Evan yawn before the boy laid his head down on the Doctor's chest as Clara laid her head at his shoulder. Looking between the two, the Doctor smiled and then quietly spoke, "We were a wonderful story, weren't we Clara?"

She touched Evan's back lightly, stroking at him gently until the Doctor's hand covered hers and she replied with a light sigh, "We're not finished, Doctor; we'll never be."

It felt like a hundred years later he was on the console and she was standing a few feet away, arm reaching and he knew, he knew if she touched him during his regeneration it could kill her. So he smiled at her to reassure her and he remembered that night, so many years ago, when he'd talked about the Christmas he longed to have with them – with that family that lay crumpled together on a couch, Clara holding tight to something she'd found lying on the couch while their son kept his fingers wrapped to the bowtie at his neck – and he hoped she'd been right when she said that memory wouldn't fade into a crack in time.

The Doctor slipped the fabric off his neck and let it drop to the ground.

His skin was aglow and he heard her utter a simple, "_Don't… change_."

With a smile and an outstretched hand, he smiled when he saw her fingertips began to sparkle with regeneration energy. She was just close enough and neither bridged the gap because they both knew the dangers, but their fingers wavered just close enough for him to wish for a miracle. And he took a breath as the smallest surge of golden light drifting over her skin, absorbing in to find a place to settle. A life to begin within her womb, and he released a small laugh as he sighed knowingly, "Hey."


End file.
